


The Librarian

by audreycritter



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Dark Comedy, F/M, Gen, Off-World, Pre-New 52, Treasure Island, a literary adventure, minor angst here and there, much banter, non-graphic batcat, pride & prejudice, probably heavily influenced by BTAS tbh, sometimes bruce is grumpy, sometimes bruce wayne can be a nerd, sometimes selina is long-suffering, strange librarians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9380687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/pseuds/audreycritter
Summary: Batman might have screwed up. Maybe. He might even be willing to admit it. He didn't mean to drag Selina Kyle into any of it, but she was dragged in all the same. And now they've got to fix things together, whether they like it or not. It might be life or death. It might involve lots of arguing. It's a good thing they're both the sort of people who read books.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the DC Comics properties or any of the other published works mentioned or used in this story. This is loosely BTAS/Comics canon. Who can say?

In retrospect, he should have known taking the cape and cowl off in Selina Kyle’s apartment was a mistake. It was probably also a mistake to take off his boots, his belt, the lightly armored chest piece and shirt, and pants.

Yeah, it was a mistake to get down to boxers and compression tee.

But to be fair, this was the first time it had ever been a mistake _for this reason_.

It’s only been half a second since they vanished without warning from her apartment and were dumped into this strange place, maybe a full second, but it’s already been long enough for him to have the thought,

_Damn. The belt._

Because he has a hunch it could come in handy soon.

“Bruce,” Selina is sitting right next to him on the white floor. It’s a cold, smooth white floor, maybe polished concrete-- no, marble. The entire floor is unbroken pure white marble. “Where are we?”

She sounds curious _and_ accusing at the same time.

“Hnn,” he says, standing up.

She stays on the floor. They both look around. They are in a marked off square, and empty polished oak and burnished steel bookshelves stand in lines around them in every direction for as far as he can see. There is no obvious source of light, no ceiling or windows he can make out, just white above and beyond where the shelves are. But it’s all brightly lit.

He sits back down.

“I have no idea,” he admits. It’s not an easy thing to say.

She shivers and curses.

He glances over-- she’s down to her black bra and underwear and probably regretting it just as much as him.

Wordlessly, he tugs the tee over his head and hands it to her. She opens her mouth to protest, then changes her mind and pulls it on.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Hnn,” he says again.

Now she stands, walks around the square bordered by plush black velvet rope strung along brass poles. She runs a hand along the rope and stops in one corner, looking out at the endless stretch of shelving. Then she looks over her shoulder at him.

“This is _your_ fault,” she says.

“We don’t even know what this is,” he protests, standing again. The floor is really cold, sucking heat from him like a greedy sponge.

“I don’t need to know what’s going on to know this is your fault,” Selina insists. “I’m not the one who runs around mixed up in alien invasions and casually uses phrases like ‘off-world’ as a reason I didn’t bother picking up a phone and calling for three months.”

“I don’t call you anyway!” he exclaims, a little angrily. This could _easily_ be her fault. They don’t even know if it’s real yet. He pinches himself hard on the inside of his arm, where the nerves are more tender, but then concludes feeling pain doesn’t really prove anything anyway.

Selina is casting a pointedly irritated look at him.

“Well, _maybe_ you should call, sometimes,” she says sharply.

Despite the situation, she is very distracting in her underwear and his clinging t-shirt.

He steels himself, forces himself to focus on her words. Then it’s easy to scowl.

“I don’t think this is the conversation we need to be having right now,” he says.

“You’re right,” she says. “I’ll stop talking so you can figure out how to fix this, because now I want to go home and have the satisfaction of seeing you scramble when I throw your boots and cape out of my apartment into the hallway.”

He doesn’t doubt for a second that she’d actually do it.

And this night had been going so well.

He had been looking forward to sex.

But not _just_ sex. Selina was far more than that. He’d been looking forward to the 2 AM Indian take-out while they talked, to sitting on the couch and listening to late night conspiracy radio and laughing with her until his side hurt, to dozing in bed for an hour.

To staggering to his feet when she prodded him in the stomach, to the half-hearted argument they’d have across the apartment while she stayed in bed and he made coffee in the kitchen with a cat staring at him from its perch on the counter. To slipping out into the morning air in the change of clothes he had in the back of her closet, the suit tucked into a backpack for the trek home, half-angry because of their argument and half-smiling anyway.

And now he’s really getting angry. No, it wasn’t a mistake to have been in her apartment tonight. The mistake was ending up here, wherever here was, and it was _not_ his fault.

“Bruce,” she snaps. “You’re drifting. Pay attention. I need you to get us out of here. I’m cold.”

“I don’t,” he says icily, “drift.”

He needs to remind himself that she’s not the enemy here, before he really screws things up.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I was drifting.”

“I know,” she says, still annoyed.

“It wasn’t a boom tube,” he says, looking around the square. “Didn’t feel like one.”

“Thank _God_ it wasn’t a boom tube,” she says sarcastically. “Because that sounds _so_ dangerous.”

He turns and glares at her. She isn’t making this easy. She arches an eyebrow.

“Hnn,” he says, turning back to look at a row of shelves. “Doesn’t feel like dream tech. Or drugs.”

“Wouldn’t not feeling like it was a dream essentially be the point?” she asks, her tone changing a little. She joins him at the boundary rope and when he glances sidelong, he can see how tense she is. The idea that they could be dreaming makes her uneasy, apparently.

“I can tell,” he says tersely. “It’s happened enough times by now.”

Without warning her, he steps over the rope.

Then a noise booms from above them, a voice loud and soft at the same time. It is an over-amplified soft whisper coming from speakers they cannot see.

“This is all your fault,” the voice says.

“I told you,” Selina hisses, while looking overhead. “Get back in here.”

“It didn’t say who-” he starts.

“ _Batman_ ,” the voice says. “And you need to fix it.”

“I _told_ you,” Selina says again.

But Bruce doesn’t return to the marked off square.

He doesn’t have time.

They’re already somewhere else.


	2. Chapter 2

The rain is pattering against the window panes of the private carriage as it rattles over the hard dirt road beneath. A wheel dips and the carriage jolts as they go over a pothole that splatters mud on one window.

Bruce looks over at Selina.

She is sitting with an outraged expression, wearing a pale pink, empire waistline dress. He looks down at himself.

“A cravat,” he observes. “I haven’t worn a cravat since…”

He trails off, a faraway look in his eye. Then he looks back at Selina and shakes his head to clear it.

“You look good in pink,” he tells her. “Brings out the color in your face.”

“I’ll bring out the color in _your_ face,” she growls, “if you don’t shut up right now and figure out what is going on.”

The carriage slows and stops.

Bruce sits forward and pulls back the curtain at the edge of the mud and rain covered window. The glass is a little foggy inside, not very high quality.

“It looks like a manor house,” he says.

Selina leans across the seat and looks with him, asking,

“Wayne Manor?”

“No,” he says, frowning. “Somewhere else.”

Then a man in livery is opening the door and holding an umbrella aloft for them.

“Welcome to Rosings,” he says, “Compliments of Lady de Bourgh. May I inquire as to your person, so that you may be announced to the house?”

Bruce feels the blood drain from his face and when he looks at Selina, her eyes are wide and she’s equally startled.

“Uh,” he says, clearing his throat. He does _not_ say uh, like an idiot.

“Bruce,” Selina is hissing at him in a choked voice while the liveried man waits patiently, his face impassive. Bruce’s face should be impassive. He collects himself.

“Mr. Bruce Wayne and wife.”

The man raises an eyebrow and says mildly, “Americans.”

“Bruce,” Selina says again, gripping his arm so hard that it actually hurts. He forgets sometimes how strong she really is. “Bruce.”

“Stop saying my name,” he snaps, annoyed at her reaction out of the confusion of his own. “And yes, somehow, we’re in _Pride & Prejudice_.”

“Bruce,” she says a fourth time and he finally looks at her. Her eyes are shining. She says it again, like she didn’t hear him. “Bruce, we’re in _Pride & Prejudice_.”

The servant seems unaffected by this conversation but slightly put out by having to stand in the rain, holding the umbrella out for them.

“Shall I tell Lady de Bourgh you plan to stay the night at Rosings?”

“Yes,” Selina says before he can answer. He’s a little slack-jawed looking at her and he knows it and it’s killing him. He presses his lips together in a straight line just as she says, “You should _absolutely_ tell her that.”

She no longer seems bothered by the pale pink dress, he muses, as they climb out of the carriage and go into the house. And his complicated feelings about cravats aside, he’s at least in clothes again. Those are improvements even if he still has no idea what the hell is going on.

He wonders briefly if this isn’t some kind of dream after all, maybe fever instead of drugs or machine.

Selina steps delicately out of the carriage, committed now that she’s accepted her role. She’s nothing if not graceful and it’s one of the things he’s always loved about her, the easy way she moves when he’s had to work so hard for every millimeter of control.

“The Lady is at dinner. I will inquire as to whether or not you may join her at such late notice,” the servant says as they go up the steps and into the house.

Once he leaves them in the foyer, Selina looks up at the vaulted ceilings and carved molding and gasps a little.

It really is fine work, but Bruce can’t help but scoff, recalling the stately wood details of his own home, “It’s not as nice as the Manor.”

“Bruce,” Selina says, admiring a painting and tracing a finger along the gilt frame. “You sound like a spoiled child. Enjoy this until we figure out what’s going on.”

“A few minutes ago you were threatening me,” Bruce reminds her, standing near to also gaze up at the painting of a stern woman with a small dog on her lap.

“A few minutes ago, I was cold and angry,” Selina retorts. “Now, I’m in _Pride & Prejudice_ and have a chance to meet–”

“Mr. Darcy of Pemberley,” the servant announces from behind them and they both whirl around. “May I present Mr. Bruce Wayne and wife of America.”

“America is rather vague,” the man says, nodding to them from the edge of the foyer. “Is there any hope of pressing you to be more specific?”

“Of New York,” Bruce supplies, Selina’s arm linked through his. She’s prodding him with her elbow while smiling sweetly at Mr. Darcy.

The man is tall and, as described, handsome. The proud lift of his chin and symmetrically chiseled features are admittedly aesthetically pleasing. Probably more than Bruce’s, if he’s honest, who, despite his best efforts, is starting to show some wear from his caped crusade– a scar along the underside of his chin, a nose just slightly bent at the bridge, the slight wrinkles of stress and age.

“My aunt sends her regrets that you did not arrive in time for dinner,” Mr. Darcy says to them. “She extends the invitation to join our party in the drawing room for coffee and cards.”

“We accept, with thanks,” Bruce says when Selina prods him hard with an elbow again.

They follow Darcy from the foyer to a drawing room with tall ceilings, the walls draped with heavy curtains and tapestries. A small crowd is there and introductions are made, and Bruce notes the absence of Elizabeth Bennett though Mr. Collins is there.

If it was anyone other than Selina Kyle, Bruce would be reluctant to let her go across the room alone to join the women. But he’s confident in her ability to take care of herself, at least, and devotes his attention to studying the room while attempting to look engaged in the small talk the men are making. If there’s any glitch, any sense that something is a weakness in whatever system or magic they’re in, he doesn’t want to miss it.

“Mr. Wayne,” the sharp voice of Lady de Bourgh snaps across the long room after several minutes of idle chatting. “Are you recently arrived? Have you seen much of our noble country?”

“We are,” Bruce says, clearing his throat slightly. He looks across to Selina and wills her to just keep her mouth shut if she has any sense. There’s no mutual story they’ve agreed upon. Outside, thunder cracks the sky and rain plasters the window panes of the room.

“You are what?” Lady de Bourgh demands. “Don’t stand there like a fool. I kindly insist you give me a complete answer.”

“We are recently arrived,” Bruce says, glancing at Selina again. The amused smirk she’s not even trying to hide is immensely irritating. “We’re just beginning to travel.”

“Would you recommend Darbyshire, Darcy?” Lady de Bourgh asked, before turning back to Bruce. “My nephew has just come from visiting the region.”

“I cannot say that I would, madam,” Darcy says stiffly. “It is rather overrun with regimental soldiers at the present time, and they are, in my opinion, a blight upon the landscape.”

“That is very candid, Darcy. I am surprised at you,” Lady de Bourgh says. “Do you play the pianoforte, Mrs. Wayne? I am ignorant of whether or not American education standards match our own. My daughter would be an accomplished pianoforte student, but playing so often wearies her, and as I am sure you can see, she is of delicate health.”

“I am not what you would consider accomplished,” Selina says primly, with a little gleam in her eye. “But I can manage a tune or two.”

“Then please do so at once,” Lady de Bourgh demands. “The room is in need of some diverting pleasure.”

Bruce shoots Selina a look of open alarm and then masks it quickly when he notices Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam glancing in his direction. She ignores him and rises from her seat.

While she is walking across the large room, Col. Fitzwilliam leans closer to Darcy and comments, “Surely you don’t hold such a low opinion of all regiments, cousin.”

“I assure you I do not, as you well know. This one included on its roster a certain Mr. Wickham.”

“Ah,” Fitzwilliam replies with a slight frown, while Bruce watches Selina and pretends not to listen to their muted conversation. “Is he why you fled Darbyshire?”

“I did not flee,” Darcy answers testily. “I was made aware that he, along with the other enlisted men, had been invited to a ball at the home of my host. I removed myself to avoid a scene and embarrassment to Bingley.”

Selina perches on the pianoforte bench and stretches her fingers above the keys. The men’s conversation dies and she takes a deep breath, obviously enjoying the attention from the room, and begins to play.

Thunder cracks outside and lightning lights up every window at once; the rain, in an instant, turns to hail against the panes.

It is a second before the sound of the pianoforte can be heard above the sudden din and Bruce realizes, with a jolt of twisting horror and disbelief, that the song Selina is gleefully banging out on the tinny keys is not a classical Romantic piece but a swinging solo effort at _Heart and Soul._

The feeling Bruce has inside cannot match the confusion apparent in the aghast expressions of every other person in the room. Before he can even open his mouth to stop her, there is a sudden jolt and without ceremony, he is back on the cold marble floor of the white room and she is next to him. The Regency attire is gone and they are left in their underclothes from before, except she is still in his t-shirt.

“ANACHRONISM!” a voice is shrieking from above them. “ANACHRONISM!”


	3. Chapter 3

“What the hell, Selina?” Bruce demands in a low growl as the room shakes with the fury in the disembodied voice. 

“I,” Selina starts, her eyes wide. She stops. The look of fear in her eyes shoots through him and all his anger with her is forgotten.

“ANACHRONISM!” the voice screams again. 

“Enough!” Bruce roars, climbing to his feet. 

“ANACHRO–” the voice cuts off at Bruce’s protest and falls silent.

“You will tell us what the hell is going on, right now,” Bruce orders, “Or I will tear every place you drop us into pieces with my hands.” 

Selina stands at his side now, her fists clenched and when he meets her gaze, their frustration and bewilderment unites them in purpose. So often, they are at odds in their intentions outside of their immediate relationship, it strikes him as suddenly pleasant in the midst of this insanity to have her as an ally.

“I’ll help him,” Selina adds coolly. “So, talk.”

“You can’t do that,” the voice pleads, clearly distressed. “You’ll ruin it, you’ll ruin everything.”

“Then tell us what we’re supposed to do,” Bruce orders sternly. “There’s no point in sending us in blind.”

“It’s all your fault,” the voice accuses, not for the first time. “You have to fix it.”

“Bruce is guilty of a lot of things,” Selina says in a conciliatory way. 

“Thanks,” Bruce mutters to her under his breath. 

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t feel that way already,” Selina says, rolling her eyes. She lifts her chin and calls out to the ceiling again, “But we still don’t know how to fix it. Or what he even did.”

“That is,” Bruce argues, “if I did anything.” 

“I will tell you what you did,” the voice hisses. “I will tell you _exactly_ what you did. You had the gall to take a hyperspace jump right through the Master Copy Stacks of Permanent English Novels in the Universal Constant Library of which I am the sole Librarian. You wrecked an entire shelf of Eternal Classics and if _you_ do not repair them, they will completely collapse and be lost to us forever.”

Selina turns with an accusatory look and Bruce glares at her in response.

“How, exactly, am I supposed to fix this?” he asks the voice. “What are the rules? And the penalties for failure?”

“Penalties?” the voice shrilly cries. “Penalties? Is the loss of a dozen Eternal Classics on each of the 52 Known Worlds that the Universal Library services _not enough for you_? Do you count so lightly the influence spanning hundreds of years and billions of decisions and daydreams that even _one_ of these novels has? If you are too stupid to fathom the utter chaos and ruin that even one such Eternal Classic’s erasure from existence would entail, I do not think I can convey it now in the time that we have. They are already nearing the point of ruin. Every moment is a waste. We have, by my own estimation– and as the Librarian, I feel my estimation is a fairly accurate one– merely three years left before they are lost to us forever.”

“Three years?” Selina exclaims. She looks at Bruce.

“We _cannot_ be here for three years,” Bruce tells the Librarian sternly.

“Then _fix the damn books_ ,” the disembodied Librarian shouts back. “That is all I require of you and then you can go! I’d like sooner rather than later just as much, but if you insist on dilly-dallying and entertaining yourselves by further wrecking Eternal Classics, which are _sacred_ by the way, by dragging in anachronistic elements and terrifying the characters within, then I’m going to make you start over as often as I must to reduce furthering the damage. _Heart and Soul_ , as you _must_ know, wasn’t written until 1938 in the 27 universes it exists.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow at Selina, who has the grace to at least shrug apologetically.

“It’s the only song I know,” she says.

“Then tell her you don’t play,” Bruce snaps. He puts a hand to his forehead and sighs. “Sorry. I don’t need to be short with you.”

“You’re right,” she says, flicking his forehead. “You don’t.”

“We need a list,” Bruce says to the Librarian, rubbing at the spot Selina flicked. “A list of rules and conditions. Otherwise, it’s going to take three or four times as long.”

In the center of the roped off area, two leather portfolios appear. There is no sound of the folders dropping into existence– they are simply there in an instant where before, there was nothing. Bruce picks them both up and hands one to Selina, who shivers a bit. His own arms are peppered with goosebumps. 

“Is there any way to make it a bit warmer in here?” he asks the voice, while flipping open the folder. It feels a bit like preparing for a meeting with the board or with investors at Wayne Enterprises, the leather cool and sleek in his hands.

“Good god, but you have a lot of demands. I won’t light a fire, not near the books,” the Librarian says, even though there are no books that Bruce can see anywhere in any direction, “but I can give you some things a previous group of tourists left. And take your time with that, now that I’ve given it to you. You might as well do your best to memorize it and avoid future complications.”

Where the portfolios had appeared, there now appears a stack of camping blankets with bright stripes. Bruce tosses one to Selina and wraps one around his own shoulders. It looks like scratchy wool but it’s much softer, for which he is grateful even if he’d never admit it. He holds the open folder and scans the first page, glancing once to see if Selina still looks cold or not. 

Content that she seems fine, considering the circumstances, he sits cross-legged on the marble floor to read. A second later, Selina sits next to him and scoots close, and then closer. Without taking his eyes off the page, he flips one side of the blanket out and around her shoulders and she closes the distance to be under his arm while they read.

“This is only because I’m cold,” she says stiffly, after a moment. “For the record, I’m still mad at you.”

“Mad?” he asks, frowning.

“You’re the one who apparently wrecked part of a universal library,” Selina snaps. “With irresponsible time-space travel.”

Bruce still isn’t sure which travel event, precisely, the voice was referring to and harbors doubts that it was actually him.

“Don’t believe everything you hear on the news,” he scolds gently, trying to focus on the dense list of rules.

There’s a snort of laughter from her and the Librarian booms, “Is this _funny_ to you? The death of beloved books?”

Selina’s laughter dies in her throat but she makes no attempt to answer. Bruce forces himself to memorize the list as he reads. It is pages long, the text thick with lettered and numbered and sub-lettered articles and conditions. A few paragraphs in, he finds an entire section specifically banning actions like the playing of _Heart and Soul_. 

“We can’t tell the named characters that they’re in a book,” Selina observes, nudging him in the side. “And they can’t die unless it’s original plot.”

“But we can say anything to unnamed characters,” he counters. 

“Can we die?” she asks suddenly, flipping through pages. She stops and puts her finger on the page. “We can. Article D.1. ‘Death is not an impossibility.’ I assume that’s true for injury as well.”

“That’s hardly going to be an issue in _Pride & Prejudice_,” Bruce says, turning pages and looking for a list of titles. “But more problematic for war novels.”

“Or adventure stories,” Selina says. 

“Shh,” he says, going back to where he’d left off. “Give me a few minutes.”

“You ask _so nicely_ ,” Selina says. “Alfred hammered those manners right into you.”

“Please,” he amends and apparently satisfied, she falls silent. 

Bruce reads, both committing to memory and summarizing major points as he goes. It was a hard-earned skill and it’s not the first time it’s come in handy. He never does find a list of novels but he reaches the last page and claps the portfolio shut. Selina is asleep, her head tipped against his shoulder.

“What?” she asks sleepily, when he nudges her. “Oh. Hey. Just catnapping.”

She winks at him and he sighs.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Says Mr. BatThing,” Selina retorts. “But I suppose you do it enough for both of us.”

“Are you quite done?” the Librarian asks from above, sounding mildly irritated.

“I’ve memorized it,” Bruce says to Selina. 

“How long was I out?” she asks, surprised. “God, I knew I loved you for a reason.” 

Bruce ignores this and stands and stretches his legs, which had come close to falling completely asleep.

“We have three to six attempts for each book, based on the condition they’re in. Did you get to that part?”

“No,” Selina says. “I knew you would. I didn’t want to waste energy.”

“We have to fix something in each story. It should be clear what’s wrong; they’re apparently pretty major deviations from original plot. We shouldn’t have to hunt far; the list claims we’re being inserted near the most damaged sections.”

“Darcy fleeing Wickham, that’s the first one,” Selina says thoughtfully, pursing her lips. “He’s gotta man-up and go back. So that’s on you. I can’t do it without making him fall in love with me, which is clearly not our goal.”

“You’re pretty confident,” Bruce observes, studying her. 

“Yep,” she replies. “I caught you, didn’t I?”

He can’t argue with that.

“Okay,” Bruce says. “Let’s just get this over with. Librarian?”

“Yes?” the Librarian says.

“We’re ready. Send us in.”

“Wonderful,” the Librarian says dryly. “Now, just don’t screw this up and ruin the lives of millions. Good luck.”


	4. Chapter 4

The rain is pounding against the window panes of the private carriage as it rattles over the hard dirt road beneath. A wheel dips and the carriage jolts as they go over a pothole that splatters mud on one window.

Bruce looks over at Selina.

She is wearing a pale pink, empire waistline dress with a determined frown on her face.

“You look good in pink,” he tells her again. "I wasn’t teasing.”

“Focus,” she tells him curtly and he realizes she’s nervous.

The carriage slows and stops.

Bruce sits forward and pulls back the curtain at the edge of the mud and rain covered window. The glass is a little foggy inside, not very high quality.

Selina leans across the seat and looks with him.

“If I die here,” she says flippantly, “make sure you take my cats home and feed them.”

“If you die here,” Bruce says, stricken inside and feigning a nonchalance to match hers, “what makes you think I’d still be alive?”

This is all his fault. He’s going to make sure she doesn’t suffer for it.

“I meant in general, by the way,” she says, straightening the neckline of her dress as she sits back, away from him. “I really don’t think Darcy poses much of a threat.”

“Then you still don’t understand how much it crushes me to be turned down for a dance,” Bruce smirks at her and raises an eyebrow. Humor isn’t often his thing but it’s good for deflection, for distraction, and he uses it more frequently than many realize-- he blames Alfred for the dryness often mistaken for sincerity.

“That was one time,” she protests. “And I told you later I had a headache.”

Then a man in livery is opening the door and holding an umbrella aloft for them.

“Welcome to Rosings,” he says.

Within fifteen minutes, they’re in the drawing room again.

The conversation from earlier is repeated almost exactly-- the discussion of their travel, Darcy’s dismissal of the regiment and Darbyshire alike.

This time, when Lady de Bourgh inquires as to Selina’s pianoforte skills, Selina demurely offers her regrets that no, she never did learn, and it is a pity.

Lady de Bourgh insists that Selina approach her so she can examine her and when the elder woman turns to her daughter, perched on a chaise lounge, Selina looks toward Bruce and rolls her eyes, then tips her head toward Darcy.

Bruce joins the men just as Col. Fitzwilliam leans closer to Darcy and comments, “Surely you don’t hold such a low opinion of all regiments, cousin.”

“I assure you I do not, as you well know. This one included on its roster a certain Mr. Wickham.”

“Ah,” Fitzwilliam replies with a slight frown, while Bruce watches Selina and pretends not to listen to their muted conversation. “Is he why you fled Darbyshire?”

“I did not _flee_ ,” Darcy answers testily. “I was made aware that he, along with the other enlisted men, had been invited to a ball at the home of my host. I removed myself to avoid a scene and embarrassment to Bingley.”

“Do you believe yourself to be so beyond restraint that you’d cause a scene?” Bruce asks quietly. Both men turn to him with varying levels of annoyance clear on their faces-- Colonel Fitzwilliam looks mostly amused, but Darcy seems genuinely irritated.

Because Bruce is looking at Selina, he can see the incredulous lift of her eyebrows, the half-scolding expression she sends in his direction. He looks away from her and meets Darcy’s equally perturbed glare.

“I beg your pardon?” Darcy says sharply.

“Is Miss de Bourgh your only daughter?” Selina asks, a little loudly, drawing the attention of both Lady de Bourgh and the men.

“Yes,” Lady de Bourgh answers. “She is my pride and joy. She is promised to my nephew, Mr. Darcy.” This speech is given as if the girl in question is not right next to her, timid and pale and holding a thin book that she is not even pretending to read. “Do you have children, Mrs, Wayne?”

Selina makes a face at the form of address, that Bruce guesses is involuntary, and he himself does not react.

“Oh, I do not,” Selina says archly. “But Mr. Wayne has several.”

“Are you a widower, then, Mr. Wayne? How unfortunate for you to bear such tragedy,” Lady de Bourgh comments, sounding not at all like she means it.

“Oh, no,” Selina, now sitting in a chair, puts her fingers to her mouth in a gesture of exaggerated femininity. “I have given the wrong impression. No, I am afraid I am Mr. Wayne’s only wife. The children are with other women but I do try to be understanding. Men will be men, you know.  
He makes very pretty apologies.”

Bruce can feel, before he can hear, the collective suppressed gasp in the room, like air sucked out of the rain-streaked windows.

He glares at Selina as she smiles demurely, blinking a small, false tear away. Lady de Bourgh looks apoplectic.

“Mrs. Wayne,” she hisses, “I am both sorry for your personal tragedy and the shame it brings your family, but such American coarseness will not do. I pray you would leave such divulgences for private company and not sully the tender, virginal ears of my young daughter.”

If Selina makes quiet apologies, Bruce does not hear them.

Darcy and Fitzwilliam are scowling at him so openly and fiercely that he almost does feel reproached.

“You cad,” Fitzwilliam bites off under his breath.

Bruce is not a stupid man and even if he stings at Selina taking the lead on this, taking the details and method out of his hands, he’s not going to kick shut the door she just opened.

“I’d say you dodged a bullet there,” he says to Darcy, easily, putting his hands in his trouser pockets, and slipping into his socialite persona in a blink. “I wouldn’t have stuck around to face him, either. I’m not one for confrontations myself.”

“Do you presume to compare us, sir?” Darcy asks coldly.

“We might have more in common than you think,” Bruce shrugs. “I’ve found running away has solved many, though evidently not all, of my problems,” he nods to Selina, who is putting on the show of patiently listening to Lady de Bourgh.

“Aunt,” Darcy says, still drilling icy holes into Bruce with his disapproving glower. Even angry, his features are symmetrical, Bruce notices with a twinge of distaste. “I must beg your leave and offer my apologies. I remember suddenly I must attend to a business matter.”

“At this hour?” Lady de Bourgh exclaims, but Darcy has already bowed slightly to his cousin and to Selina and is stalking out of the room.

Bruce spends thirty minutes playing a very stiff and uncomfortably silent card game with Fitzwilliam, who makes no secret of his distaste for Bruce by his manner or bearing. Bruce can only imagine Fitzwilliam is entertaining him out of some sense of obligation to Lady de Bourgh.

Right as they are starting a new hand and he can overhear a note of monotone impatience creeping into Selina’s replies to Lady de Bourgh, there’s a rattling of horse hooves and carriage wheels outside the window.

“There goes Darcy,” Fitzwilliam remarks, sounding disappointed.

Bruce opens his mouth to answer him but claps it shut again when he’s standing in the white room, in the roped off square, surrounded by empty shelving. The wool blankets are in a pile on the floor and Selina is sitting next to them, looking mildly amused.

“Well, that was easy,” she says.

“I don’t know if we–” he begins.

“Darcy has returned to Netherfield! All is set to right,” the Librarian announces with relief.

“You’re pretty damn pleased with yourself,” Bruce says to Selina, a little sourly. He tries hard to just be grateful they’re one step closer to home, but her deft social ease and being thrown under the proverbial bus still smarts a little.

“Oh, don’t whine,” Selina says, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. “I saw your face. You were going to try to terrorize him into going back.”

“I wasn’t,” Bruce growls, sitting next to her and taking the other blanket. He holds it for a long minute in his hands, both cold and not wanting to admit it. It seems chillier than their previous time in the white room.

“It’s done,” she says. “I threw you a curveball and you knocked it out of the park. Aren’t you always on my case about working together?”

“That metaphor puts us on opposing teams and doesn’t make any sense,” Bruce says, flipping the blanket around his back and frowning.

“Be that way, then, Mr. Grumpybat,” Selina says. It seems as though her good mood is hard to shake. “I’m counting it a win and this isn’t even my mess to clean up.”

“You don’t have to remind me,” he says flatly, flooded with guilt all over again. Selina nudges his broad shoulder with her thin one.

“Bruce. Move on. It was kinda fun. And you didn’t have to listen to Lady de Bourgh bitch about the declining quality of carrots, so I think you got off easy.”

Selina is not naturally a very optimistic person. She tends toward pessimism or, like him, realism. So he looks at her, next to him, and his carefully cultivated ire and guilt fade just a little. If she’s trying as hard as she obviously is, the least he can do is match her effort.

“Do you think Darcy is prettier than me?” he asks, teasing, rubbing his chin and looking up a bit at the ceiling to show her his profile.

“Yes,” Selina answers with a low laugh. “In a soft, spoiled way.”

“I thought you said I was spoiled,” Bruce says suspiciously.

“You are,” Selina says, prodding his arm with a finger. “But you aren’t soft.”

“Are you quite done?” the voice asks. “I’ve just finished reshelving the book. Can we move on?”

“Let’s go,” Selina says. “The sooner we get out of here the sooner I can stop freezing to death.”

Bruce reminds himself to give her both blankets if it’s not any warmer when they make it back.

And they’re somewhere else in a blink.

And it’s wet.


	5. Chapter 5

The rain is falling in heavy sheets, blown by howling winds. Salty water sprays over the side of the precariously tipping rowboat Selina Kyle is clinging to as it rocks with choppy ocean waves. It’s not exactly an improvement on freezing.

“Treasure Island!” Bruce yells over the roar of the world around them. They’re both in loose pants knotted at the waist and draping blouses. Bruce, inexplicably, has an eyepatch. He rips it off with a scowl of irritation and throws it into the waves.

“How did you get that from ‘ocean’?” Selina demands, gripping the sides white-knuckled as the boat tops again. “Why not Moby Dick?”

“Hispaniola!” Bruce shouts in reply, pointing behind her. She twists without relinquishing her grip. There’s a massive ship back there, the name painted upon its side in scrolling letters.

While she’s still turned, she sees by the gray overcast light an impossibly tiny boat approaching the ship. The ship is speeding forward, sails full and taut in the wind. Before Selina can even form words, a boy in the small boat leaps upward for the dipping pointed beam at the front of the ship.

He misses.

He goes under with his tiny boat, plowed over by the ship.

There’s a splash, muted but closer and she spins again just in time to see Bruce reemerging from a dive to swim toward the wake of the ship. With a frustrated sigh, Selina grabs the oars and yells after him, “I don’t know how to row!” but she begins to attempt it anyway. The storm is relentless and the next wave nearly capsizes the rowboat.

She manages to swing the rowboat just slightly so it cuts through the next wave, the stern raising at a gut-wrenching angle but maintaining its place above the water. The massive ship is now yards past them, blown at an astonishing speed for such a large vessel by the fierce wind. Through the rain, she can see Bruce breaking the surface of the water for air, only fifteen feet from her. He bobs with the swell of a wave and coughs when spray smacks him in the face.

Selina wrestles with the oars when one is nearly wrenched out of her grip and Bruce dives back under. It’s impossible to keep the rowboat in one place and the sky is turning a greenish-black instead of gray. She considers, briefly, jumping overboard to help him look, but the possibility of losing the rowboat is too high and she’s not sure either of them would survive the swim to the distant island in this weather.

Well, he might, but swimming isn’t exactly her strong suit.

The rowboat’s side leans so far to the left that Selina hisses involuntarily, a noise of alarm and anger at the universe, but she turns to wrangle the oar and sees that it’s Bruce. He’s got one arm on the side, opposite the area she expected him to come up, and he has a boy clutched in one arm.

She leans forward to grab him and Bruce shakes his head, flicking water from his hair.

“Starboard,” he growls.

“What?” she freezes.

“Other,” he lets go over the boat for a minute, treading the swell of a wave, “side.”

She doesn’t waste time arguing– she slides to the opposite side of the boat and he grabs ahold again and all but throws the boy out of the water into the vessel and then climbs in himself. Selina’s weight combined with the boy, sprawled across the bench, keep the boat from capsizing even though it comes pretty close.

Bruce sits catching his breath and Selina leans over the boy. She’s trying to decide if she should start CPR or something when he coughs and sits halfway up.

“What luck!” he cries, still gasping. “I was certain you were ghosts when I spotted you amidst the waves and set my mind to ignore you, but what good Providence that you are flesh and blood!”

“Yes,” Selina agrees, because she’s not sure what else to say to the boy at first.

“What an infernal day to be upon the waters in so slight a vessel! My coracle is plainly lost,” he continues, shaking himself as he sits up. “Are you also marooned? Where is your ship?”

“The North Inlet,” Bruce says before Selina can answer. “We anchored this morning and thought to circuit the island.”

“Ah!” the boy says, his eyes bright. He doesn’t seem as if nearly drowning troubles him at all. “The very place I aim to sail! I beg you to suspend your disbelief, but that ship you see there on the murky horizon is flying the Jolly Roger only by mutiny! It is a Christian ship, though it has indeed suffered much violent and wicked misfortune.”

“We’ll help you get on board,” Selina says, meeting Bruce’s eyes. He nods.

“How can I repay such kindness to stranger?” the boy asks, sounding genuinely distressed. “No, I cannot ask you to risk such a perilous feat. It may strand you both asea and no man could survive the swim to land in such a storm as this one that has beset us!”

Selina watches Bruce’s face harden as he looks to the distant island, a slight narrowing of his eyes and tensing of his jaw as he peers through the rain. She can almost hear him calculating the distance.

“Bruce, no,” she says, and he turns to look at her. His hair is plastered to his forehead and she knows hers must be in the same, sorry state.

“We will risk it,” Bruce says to the boy.

“She comes again!” the boy cries instead of replying to this immediately. He half-stands in the rowboat, pointing to the ship which has swung around and is now barreling toward them through the downpour. “What madness! Surely they are dead or deserted, to let the flying jib swing so!”

“Switch me?” Selina offers, nodding toward her hand on the oar. Bruce glances but shakes his head.

“Get ready to jump,” he says, rising to a crouch. “We’ll increase our odds.”

The ship’s prow is now almost directly upon them, a long wooden spike sticking out from the deck. Selina wastes no time in springing up and wrapping an arm around it.

It is rough but slick with rain. She manages to hold on anyway, and Bruce jumps with one hand firmly gripping the boy’s narrow upper arm. He dangles one-handed while Selina swings up to sit on the beam, legs curled underneath her.

Bruce lifts the boy until he, too, catches hold. The rowboat goes to splinters beneath them with a crack.

The boy creeps toward the ship and just as Bruce hauls himself up, the boy’s feet hit the unsteady deck and Selina blinks and they are back in the white room.

Thick, velvet ropes still surround the square and the blankets from earlier are there. They are sopping wet, rivulets of water running off them and the drenched pirate clothes are gone.

Selina tries to keep her teeth from chattering and Bruce throws a blanket around her shoulders and he sneezes at the same time.

“ _Treasure Island_ has been reshelved,” the Librarian says in a small pleased voice. “You are moving along at a more efficient pace than I could have hoped. Next book!”

“Wait!” Bruce orders in a deep growl. “You can't keep throwing us in like that. We haven’t eaten. We haven’t slept.”

He sneezes again and Selina means to say bless you, but her arms ache from wrestling with the oars and she realizes she is actually starving. She’d been too distracted before now to pay attention.

The Librarian sighs, a long and drawn out sound.

“If we might be here for months,” Bruce argues against the silence, “we’re going to need more than an empty room and old blankets.”

Selina sits down to quell the wave of exhaustion and hunger that slams against her. Her teeth are now actually chattering. The floor is frigid and the blanket, already damp, isn’t much help. She glances up at Bruce and his matted hair, his pale skin and eyes faintly red with irritation from seawater.

“If you put us in another broken book,” Selina says, adding her voice to the reasoning, “I will maim the first character I recognize.”

“You wouldn’t,” the Librarian gasps, horrified. “How dare you.”

“I’d be tempted to let her,” Bruce says. “If you want us to be able to fix things, we need to sleep and eat. We need to be able to dry off and warm up.”

“Very well,” the Librarian sighs in frustration. “But you are now indebted to the Library. Usually, one has to pay for this sort of thing.”

Bruce puts his hand against his forehead and Selina can see his chest fill with the breath with he does not let himself exhale.

“How much?” he asks, as Selina decides the floor is worse than standing as far as warmth goes. Bruce still hasn’t taken the other blanket and it irks her how stubborn he is, so she picks it up and throws it at him. It hits him in the face and he does exhale. But he wraps it around himself anyway.

“Psh,” the Librarian scoffs. “Like you could afford it.”

“Try me,” Bruce says flatly, a little amused twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Do you have any deserted planets?” the Librarian asks. “Any Expended Eras? Any retired civilizations? Forgotten languages?”

“How could someone _have_ a forgotten language?” Bruce demands, clearly annoyed that this is, for once, impossibly out of his price range. Selina, despite herself, laughs low and quiet. He shoots her an irritated frown.

“If you have to ask, you clearly don’t possess any. Therefore, you are in my debt. Again. Still. Let me see if I have any vacancies in the Calm American Town department.”

There’s actually the sound of rustling papers from overhead and Bruce sneezes again.

“You okay?” Selina asks, edging closer to him.

“I haven’t slept for two days,” he says tightly, still glaring upward.

“We have one!” the Librarian says. “The Hardy Boys’ The Great Airport Mystery. It’s a lovely town, very quiet if you stay out of plot.” His voice takes on a slightly rushed monotone, as if reciting or reading something he has run through many times before, only broken by his own interruptions.

“There will be a vacant house provided, all food suited to your species will be stocked in the house, local currency will be available via bank card, cash, or coin, whichever is applicable. No engaging the primary characters of the text, no modifications to plot, no non-canonical drug usage permitted– though I suppose I don’t have to worry about that with _you_. No destruction of property in books zoned non- or limited-violence. Any failure to comply with the terms of your lease will result in immediate ejection–the main branch for you!– and refunds will not be issued. Though, that’s also not a problem. And in your case, if someone else requests this title by name, I’ll be obliged to relocate you.”

“Yes, yes, whatever,” Bruce says. “It’s fine.”

“Are you still pissed that you can’t pay?” Selina asks, bewildered and amused. She pokes him with an elbow through the blankets. “Now _you_ know how it feels.”

“I–” Bruce starts but the surroundings shutter out and they’re standing on a sidewalk in 1960s America, identical suburban houses lining the sunny midday street.

“He keeps doing that on purpose,” Bruce grumbles.

“You’re paranoid,” Selina tells him, smoothing out the pleated skirt of the dress she’s wearing. “And I look like a damn housewife. I’d kill for some decent leggings.”

Despite the wardrobe change, her skin is still damp and clammy and her hair trickling water down her neck. Bruce is wearing a boxy suit and a narrow tie and he takes off across the grass, pulling a realty sign with a SOLD sticker plastered on it out of the grass as he goes.

The yellow house is cheerful and bright and has flowers in the porch planters and a neat, trim lawn. The door is painted glistening white and apparently not locked, because Bruce pulls it open without a key or stooping to pick it.

Selina follows and kicks her heels off just inside. Bruce is already in the kitchen looking in cabinets and making irritated noises. She’d hoped he’d be in a good mood after saving Jim in Treasure Island, but he seems to be going downhill fast.

She’s likely to quickly follow suit if she’s not careful and then they’ll both just explode.

He’s slamming a percolator on the counter when she goes into the kitchen and he stops, his hands braced against the sleek laminate.

“Sit,” she says, putting a hand on his. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine,” he answers, reaching for a tin of coffee.

“God, you are _so_ stubborn,” she hisses, giving him a gentle shove. He stiffens all over but then leaves the counter and drops into a metal and vinyl chair at the kitchen table. “I slept all afternoon before you came over…” she trails off.

“An hour in _Pride & Prejudice_, then another four. Then almost an hour in _Treasure Island_. Plus the time we’ve spent in the Main Branch. I think it’s somewhere around ten in the morning for us,” Bruce says, his head propped in his hands at the table. “Is your head okay?”

“Yes,” Selina answers, with a suspicious frown. She pauses midscoop with the coffee and looks over her shoulder at him. “Why? Is yours?”

“Mine is killing me. I thought it was a book thing.”

“Nope,” she says. “I’m fine. Want to go shower or something? I’m assuming there’s a shower. You could warm up and I’ll find some food.”

He nods and stands and then halts at the door and turns back.

“No,” he says, his voice gruff. “You go first.”

Selina looks over at him, pinching the bridge of his nose, and she can tell arguing is just going to go in circles. She could try to stick it out anyway but it wouldn’t help anyone and she is actually still really cold.

“Don’t burn the house down,” she says lightly, walking past him.

“We’re going to be lucky if I produce anything edible,” he answers, “but I can manage not starting a kitchen fire.”

Selina finds a bedroom with a dresser and closet full of clothes and glares at the long, shapeless nightgowns. There’s one suit of pajamas that’s pants trimmed with lace at the ankles and buttons that go all the way to the neck, but it’s better than a glorified floursack. She’s too weary to bother with real clothes to just eat and go to sleep, despite the daylight streaming through the window.

When she goes downstairs after a hot shower, Bruce has cobbled together some sandwiches that aren’t terrible and he shrugs and says, “It was fast.”

She’s pretty sure he means, “it didn’t require actual cooking” but she lets it slide.

They eat together in silence, a feeling of shock seeping through her as she chews and swallows.

She is in a book.

She has little agency.

There is no way for her to go home unless she follows the rules and it is the worst kind of trapped.

She doesn’t mean to panic, but it’s welling up in her all the same, and Bruce notices because he’s Bruce and he notices almost everything.

“We’re going to get out of here,” he says firmly, downing half a cup of coffee after. He meets and holds her gaze. “I promise.”

“I thought you didn’t like to make promises you couldn’t keep,” Selina says, trying to sound careless and unbothered. She intends for it to be teasing but it’s pretty dull.

In response, Bruce just shrugs one shoulder, very slightly, and puts an empty plate in the sink.

“I’m going to sleep,” he says. “Which bedroom did you want?”

“Oh, so _now_ you’re a prude,” Selina scoffs, not wanting to admit how much the idea of being separated for long terrifies her.

It’s him the Librarian wanted– she was just an unfortunate proximity bonus. What if she’s in another room and gets left behind? How long would she wait in before Bruce could convince the Librarian to bring her along, especially after that incident with the pianoforte?

Bruce looks at her for a moment and then says, “Alright,” and goes up the stairs.

A minute later, Selina puts her plate with his in the sink and looks around the perfect little kitchen. Bruce probably half forgot that the dishes wouldn’t just be magically cleaned and put away without Alfred around and Selina is used to waiting until she’s fed up with how dirty the kitchen is, so she leaves them.

The curtains in the bedroom are drawn and he’s already in bed, the suit discarded on a nearby chair. She slips between the covers with him and studies his face. His hair, still damp, is stuck to the side of his forehead and she reaches out and pushes the strands back.

“I think your hair is longer than mine,” she says. She hadn’t noticed before.

“Hnn,” is all he says, and he sounds mostly asleep. Despite this, his arm snakes out and pulls her close to him, her back against his chest, and she drifts off to the rhythm of his breathing.

She wakes to an empty bed in pitch black dark.


	6. Chapter 6

Bruce is sitting at the kitchen table with a mug when he hears rapid footsteps upstairs. They rush toward the stairs and then in the faint glow from the kitchen light, slow.

Selina creeps down the stairs noiselessly now, trying to look like she hadn’t just been rushing. He doesn’t mention it when she joins him in the kitchen and pulls a chair out.

“Tea?” she asks, leaning to peek into his mug.

“Hot water,” he says, hating how hoarse he sounds and how much the words sting his throat. And then despite his best effort, he sniffles. “With lemon. Found it in the cocktail bar.”

“Are you sick?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“No,” he says. “Just a cold.”

He wishes he had any of the arsenal of usual tools: Alfred’s soup, vitamin compounds, protein shakes. 

“Shit,” she says, rubbing her temples. “That makes two of us.”

“Symptoms?” he asks, leaving his mug and standing to get another. 

“Headache, sore throat, feeling like death warmed over,” Selina answers. “Stupid ocean.”

“Heh,” Bruce says, turning the burner on under the kettle on the stove. It’s still warm and shouldn’t take long to heat up. 

“What time is it?” Selina asks, yawning. “It’s dark out.”

“Almost three,” he answers, sitting back down while he waits. “Selina…”

If it was anyone else, other than her or Alfred, he probably would not let his head tip into his hands on the table like this, a gesture of exhaustion and defeat. But he is exhausted, after hours of restless sleep, and he feels like shit.

“Selina, I’m sorry,” he finally settles on saying. He doesn’t look up at her. “I’m going to get us home.”

“So you’ve said,” she says, a strange hesitation in her voice. The kettle whistles and he stands and sneaks a glance at her over his shoulder. She’s examining her hands, studying the wrecked remnants of a manicure. 

“What?” he asks defensively, when the silence stretches out long and stiff. It doesn’t help that his throat is so raw, his voice so ragged. It sounds awful to his own ears but maybe it’s not that different from how he sounds as Batman.

And he is here, as Batman.

But without the mask and cape it’s hard to feel very far removed from Bruce. 

Selina swallows and takes the hot water and lemon wedge he sets in front of her. She wraps her hands around it but doesn’t pick it up.

“When Stan…” she says, and then she shakes her head, a quick jerk of a dismissal of whatever thoughts almost seeped out of her in the dim kitchen in the middle of the night. He is watching her closely but pretending not to be and he can all but see her words retreating. “Nevermind,” she says finally.

Maybe he should press a little, encourage her, draw out words with something gentle the way he draws out confessions with brutality. But his mouth is suddenly dry and he cannot decide if pressing would make her feel safe or merely pursued. 

He settles for drinking more hot water instead and grimaces when he realizes it’s cooled to merely lukewarm. 

“We should come up with a system,” he says after a moment, frowning at the water in his mug while he debates adding more. He looks up to meet her questioning gaze, a single arched eyebrow on her tired face. She looks pale in the yellowed kitchen lighting. He clarifies.“If we get separated. We need a method of communication.”

“I could just belt out Broadway hits until he pulls us out,” Selina says impishly, some of the guarded hunch to her shoulders relaxing. 

“It’d be better if we could find something that didn’t endanger us or the mission,” Bruce says dryly. He stands and adds more hot water to his mug from the still-steaming kettle. It’s not drugs but it’s helping. “But it can’t be anything external.”

“Please tell me you aren’t considering having us swallow radios,” Selina teases, sipping the hot water and then squeezing the lemon wedge over it again. It’s not outside the realm of what Bruce has considered in the most far fetched attempts to find a solution, but something in his expression must give him away because Selina catches his gaze and says sternly, “No.”

“We could–” 

“No,” she says again. “I don’t even want to know.”

Bruce sets his mouth in a straight line. She doesn’t have to make things additionally difficult, but any wisp of an idea he’d had probably wasn’t safe or feasible anyway, so he lets it go. For now.

The kitchen is so small that with his racing mind, it’s beginning to feel too cramped. Even with the sore throat and congestion, he craves space. Motion isn’t essential, but at least in the Cave, the natural ceiling is so cavernous that it feels almost like another kind of sky. 

“I’m going for a walk,” he says, draining his mug.

“At three in the morning? In Pleasantville?” Selina asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Bayport,” he corrects automatically.

“I should have pegged you as a Hardy Boys fan,” Selina grumbles in response. “Were you Frank or Joe when you ran around pretending?”

“I didn’t pretend,” Bruce insists. “I’m going for a walk.”

“I’m coming,” Selina says, standing and stretching her arms. “Is it cold out there?”

“It’s perfect,” Bruce says. “It’s Bayport. As long as we’re not stumbling on a smuggling ring, we’ll be fine.”

He pulls open the side door and steps out of the kitchen into the early morning air, in his bare feet. It’s just warm enough to not feel chilly when his toes sink into the trimmed grass. Selina follows a few steps behind as he strides around the house toward the front and the sidewalk.

“Frank,” he admits when she’s alongside him on the smooth, swept concrete. 

“I knew it!” she says in a triumphant whisper, jabbing his arm with a finger. 

“When I was seven,” he clarifies. 

“Of course,” she says. “You never did anything childish, like dressing up, after third grade.”

Bruce gives her a sharp, sidelong glance and her put-on expression of innocence draws a slight smile out of him.

“I need to think,” he tells her, pulling his eyes toward the sidewalk ahead. Selina falls into easy silence as they walk. The houses around them are still and dark and it is so quiet Bruce wonders if they even have actual inhabitants or if the entire neighborhood is empty. 

“I bet these people are loaded,” Selina says a second later. “And no security systems. It’d be so easy it wouldn’t even be fun.”

“Selina,” Bruce says, his attention pulled outward again. “We’re supposed to sleep here, not become a case for them to solve.”

She shrugs. 

“They’d never know it was me,” she counters.

“That’s not the point!” 

“It wouldn’t be fun anyway,” Selina says dismissively. “Like I said, too easy.”

“I thought I told you I needed to think,” Bruce replies, as she links her arm through his.

“I’m not stopping you,” she contests. “You were the one that felt like you needed to get involved. I was just talking to myself.”

Bruce decides not to answer this. 

“I’d come back for you,” he says, after several minutes of walking. He’s not anywhere closer to a solution to the problem of communication, not anything consistent across the potential works. They might have to develop an individual plan each time. 

Her arm tightens around his, just slightly. 

“I don’t need you to save me,” she says a little acidly, and he hears fear rather than anger in her words.

“I know,” he says. “But if he left you behind, I’d come back for you.”

Selina stops and because their arms are linked, her floral print pajama sleeve against the white of his undershirt he hadn’t bothered to change out of, he has to also stop if he doesn’t want to pull his arm away from hers.

“You think he could leave me somewhere and I wouldn’t find a way to force him to notice me?” she asks, an amused glint in her eyes.

“How do you think I plan to find you?” he teases, relieved that he can chase a bit of the worried frown from the edges of her mouth. “You never have been good at stealth.”

She lifts her chin and doesn’t hold back the arrogant, offended pout.

“I come here to help you,” she says archly, “and you insult my character, my livelihood.”

“Theft isn’t a career,” he says, laughing. “But I’m sorry. I know how important your pretenses are to you.”

“It’s amusing how blind you are to how often you self-criticize,” she says, glancing at him with a less offended expression and more open amusement.

“I don’t know why you assume I’m blind to it,” Bruce counters. “Maybe it’s intentional.”

They begin walking again and the little house they’d left is ahead on their right; they’ve made a full loop of the block. The kitchen light is still on and Bruce is already looking forward to crawling back into bed. His sore throat woke him up, but now that it’s pained but less intrusive he finds he is still exhausted.

Selina lets go of his arm when he reaches for the handle and just as his hand closes around the metal, it vanishes from his grip and they’re standing in the white room again.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” the Librarian says.

Selina groans and Bruce’s throat sharply stings again at the onslaught of cold air.

“You have to stop taking our clothes,” Selina says.

“I haven’t done anything with your clothes,” the Librarian retorts. “You have what you came with. No removal of items from books. Come along, I’ve been waiting. We have works of art to save.”

“We need some sort of warn–” Bruce says and cuts himself off when the glaring light around them vanishes and they’re standing on a broad stone step.

They’re both in clothes lined with fur. A long hall built of thick timbers, with a thatched straw roof, looks above them. Inside, there’s firelight and the roar of conversation and the smell of smoke and alcohol drifts out of the propped-open doors. It’s late evening, judging by the overcast light through the storm clouds.

“Alright, nerd,” Selina says, turning to him while she studies the embroidery on her dress sleeve. “Where are we? I’m weak on fantasy.”

Bruce listens for a moment, hears a form of address inside the hall, and his muscles tense with the realization.

“This isn’t fantasy,” he says grimly, thinking suddenly of actual danger and the risk of death and the prospect of fighting monsters without his usual arsenal. “This is Beowulf.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back to work! Hiiiiii.


End file.
